


A Matter of Safety

by Kahvi



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Drug Use, Drugged Sherlock, M/M, Power Dynamics, Recreational Drug Use, Season/Series 03, Season/Series 03 Spoilers, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-28
Updated: 2014-03-10
Packaged: 2018-01-14 02:39:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1249690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kahvi/pseuds/Kahvi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock had expected John to show up while that little domestic matter between him and Mary was still ongoing. However, when John does, what he proposes isn't anything Sherlock had anticipated at all. Still, as John says, people have different ways of coping, in a war zone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PreciselyVex (CrashEdit)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrashEdit/gifts).



"Mother is insisting you both come for Christmas dinner." 

Sherlock felt the swearing before he heard it; sharp intake of breath, the words themselves. Then: shuffling feet stilling, the choice of how to make their presence known taken from them. "Jesus, Sherlock."

"Don't expect he'll make an appearance. I'm well aware they seem nicely middle class and CoE, but I doubt my father's set foot in a church since he left Harrow. As for mother-"

"Really not in the mood." 

John made his way to the chair he insisted on referring to as his, slumping down in it and watching Sherlock's back. Well, this was all extrapolation, as Sherlock had not turned. He had intended to wrap up these case notes, and he would do so, unexpected appearance of John Watson or no. The screen glared in the half-light of the room, the curtains drawn. 

"Bit dark in here."

"Is it really? I hadn't noticed."

"You're not going to ask, are you?"

Sherlock's finger tapped between the I and O key, lightly. The laptop's fan hummed. "You came here precisely because you knew I wouldn't ask."

"A normal person would ask, Sherlock."

"Exactly, which is why you came here. There's tea in the cupboard. And fresh milk. Fairly fresh."  
John hesitated, just slightly. Ah, worth it. "Milk? Really?"

"I know. How hilariously counter to type of me."

"Yes, all right." Duly mollified, John got back up and made his way to the kitchen, or so Sherlock assumed. There. Running water; kettle noises. Cupboards opening. Satisfied, Sherlock settled back into his writing. Whatever John was here for - and it _was_ something; the uncertain clanking of mugs, the little pause before pouring the milk. The continued effort not to clear his throat - would come out in time.

* * *

It took an astonishing fourty nine minutes for John to bring up the subject of drugs. By then, of course, it was painfully evident that this was the purpose of his visit, though his exact motivations remained unclear. Conversation up to this point had consisted mostly of half-begun sentences and strained coughs, but a well-timed pause often spoke more eloquently than the words in between which it nestled. The case had long since been written up, down and sideways, and Sherlock had been forced to spend a considerable amount of time pretending to type. It spoke to John's state of mind that he had not noticed; for all that Sherlock riled him, there were certain things the good doctor rarely missed. 

"So, you know," another sentence dragged out, miserably. "Just... wondering. Because you look... I mean, you look good. Healthy," he quickly amended. Sherlock allowed himself a smirk. 

"Taking a professional interest?"

"I'm just making conversation, Sherlock. You could join in, you know; it'd help."

Irritation, increased fidgeting. _Hm_. "Perhaps you're right," Sherlock said, swiveling. John's start was absolutely predictable, and shouldn't have had such a visceral effect on Sherlock. But the man looked _stricken_. His legs and arms crossed immediately under Sherlock's gaze. His eyes flickered, telling their own tale if Sherlock could be bothered to follow them. He didn't; it'd be more fun to find out this way. "The answer is no, by the way."

"I didn't ask you a question."

"No, I'm not using again." 

"That's..." John had not expected such a direct approach, clearly. His eyes rolled back in his head, as if searching through a mental filing cabinet for a pre-prepared speech that might fit this particular outcome. Finding none, he licked his lips, and leaned forwards. "That's actually what I wanted to talk to you about." 

"Color me surprised."

"I know it must be bloody obvious to you, all right, but would you... could you just met me say this in my own way?"

 _More fun this way_. Sherlock nodded. Yes, amusing. And interesting. And, as an entirely unintended side effect, a courtesy to John. 

"I... I feel like I've been too harsh on you. With the... with the drugs. And all."

Quite possibly the truth. Not the whole truth, by the way John's gaze kept shifting, but close. Now there was a turn-up. Sherlock nodded again.

"This doesn't mean I like the cigarettes. They do fuck-all for you and they fuck you up. But you know, you see a lot of shite when you're in the middle of a war zone. People cope with that in different ways."

It was clear to both of them that John wasn't really talking about Afghanistan. "I have other ways."

"I know; that's what worries me." Another half-truth. Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "Yeah, I'm well aware I'm in no position to throw stones. But you know, if the drugs... if they help..." He struggled with the next few words. Sherlock did not help him, and in the end he glared as he forced them out. "I'm a doctor. I could... I could help."

"Help me get drugs?"

John shrugged. "No. I mean, I could, but probably not the sort of stuff you'd like, from what Molly tells me." Sherlock snorted at the mention of her name, and John's lip twitched. "Still hurts, does it?"

"Do get on with it." 

"What I'm saying is... what I'm suggesting..."

"You want to watch me do drugs?"

John's mug hit the carpet, contents still steaming.

* * *

Sherlock handed John another paper towel, trying not make his smirk too obvious. "How many sugars?"

"Like you don't know." John swore at the spreading stain, rubbing fruitlessly. 

"I'm only thinking of the carpet."

"Of course you are." Even John was beginning to see that his efforts weren't doing much good. "Bloody thing..."

"Leave it. I'll get Mrs. Hudson to look at it tomorrow." 

"She's not your housekeeper."

"And you don't live here anymore." John's head snapped back. Their eyes met, but he clearly couldn't think of what to say. For lack of any useful input to work with, Sherlock picked up the cup. Rinsed it under the sink. Not a trace of sugar, from the looks of what was left in it. Hm. 

"Are you going to consider it," John asked Sherlock's back. 

"Consider what?"

John's voice was heavy with strain. "The _drugs_ , Sherlock. Will you at least consider it? It'd be..." Sherlock turned, when the sentence hung there, incomplete. "Safer." 

Sherlock set the cup down. This was getting tedious. "Tell me why you _really_ want to."

"I told you. It'll be safer."

"It'd be even safer if I don't take them. And you're the one suggesting I should."

"We both know you'll do it anyway."

"Do we?"

"Especially now that I've got your interest piqued. I know you, OK? I've made you curious, got you wondering what it'd be like. If you don't trust my motivations, do it for the kink." 

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Kink?"

"Kick." John kept his stare level. Which meant absolutely nothing. The man could stare down a mountain lion, and probably had. 

"Of course." 

"Of course what?"

"Of course I'll do it."

* * *

They set a date for Sunday next, which happened to be on a bank holiday weekend. As only one of them kept regular office hours, and not the one that would actually be taking the drugs, Sherlock allowed that fact to speak subtly for itself. Though what it did say, like the myriad other droplets of information hinting as to John's true motive, remained murky and unclear. At any rate, John was early that afternoon, almost-ringing the doorbell twice before letting himself in with the key he'd told Sherlock he hadn't kept. Sherlock made sure the door to the lounge was open, in the interest of preventing further dithering. Still, John knocked as he came in. Jesus. Wouldn't this be a barrel of laughs. 

"The door's open for a reason."

John nodded, closing it as he went through, then checking twice as he locked it from the inside. Pointlessly, as the only one who could possibly disturb them had her own key. 

"I've made all the nessecary arrangements." 

John nodded again. He hadn't looked directly at Sherlock yet, as evidenced by his wide-eyed shock when he did so now. "You're..."

"I just got up."

"It's nearly three in the afternoon."

Sherlock didn't bother answering. The 'ignoring everything I've learned about your behavior' routine was getting a bit old. Current circumstances considered, especially. John, to his credit, set down the bag of whatever it was he'd brought with him - supplies for a medical emergency, possibly - and made no further comment. "It's a robe," Sherlock told him when he finally sat down. "I'm hardly naked."

"Shall we get on with it, then?"

"If you like." 

And so they did. John had gravitated to _his_ chair, presumably for comfort, so despite Sherlock's preference for the settee, he seated himself opposite, legs akimbo. 

"You know what I'm going to take?"

"Yes. You told me." And Sherlock knew what was in the bag. 

"Let's have it."

"Have... what?" Eyes darting to the table. Still a _terrible_ actor and a worse liar. Sherlock held his hand out and waited, silently, until John rose, ambled over, unpacked the injection gun and handed it to him. If he sighed or rolled his eyes, Sherlock didn't notice. 

"Hm." Sherlock turned it over. Not a complicated mechanism. Nothing he'd tried to operate before, but clearly made for ease of use. "The interesting bits go in here, I expect." It wasn't a question, so John didn't answer at first. Then, rethinking, the doctor in him momentarily taking over in a situation he was trying to avoid, he nodded. 

"Yeah. You... right. Yeah," he added, more quietly, when Sherlock loaded it as simply as expected. "Thanks for offering to let me test that, by the way."

"Thanks for trusting my judgement enough not to." 

"It's not a matter of trust."

"No, it's a matter of safety, as you said." Perhaps he had not been able to find undisturbed laboratory time, or had not dared take the risk. Safety, always safety first. In so many ways, yes? 

John was fidgeting again. He'd toed out of his shoes, and one leg was jiggling nervously in time with his facial contractions. Smiles, one might call them, if one didn't know John Watson terribly well. "Go on." 

"All right." 

Taking the gun by the hilt, Sherlock handed it to a gawping John. 

"Safer this way. Wouldn't you agree? You _are_ a doctor."


	2. Chapter 2

John's hands were quite steady, though it would be difficult to tell; part of the gun's purpose being to make up for human error. In the manner of all guns, perhaps. All in all, Sherlock was not quite sure what to make of that. "You can touch me, you know," he quipped; a diversion for the both of them.

"The gun means I don't have to."

"Ah. Being a physician, naturally, you abhor human contact."

"Naturally."

There was no sting. Poetically enough. "Well, isn't this fun?"

"Is it supposed to be?"

"I thought that was rather the point."

John settled back, socked feet searching aimlessly in the empty space between the chair's legs. His own. By all means. "The point is keeping that brain of yours occupied. Stop it from eating itself."

"Yes. Well."

John was waiting. Restlessly, and no wonder; the effects should be immediately obvious, even for one who was not so eagerly anticipating. It was Sherlock who had suggested what he might take, but not randomly. When he had, quite nonchalantly, mentioned the exact cocktail he had been under the influence of while undercover, John's lips had tightened, and he'd crossed his legs. What better paraphrase for 'say no more'? Which went, of course, some way towards enlightening John's reasons for being here right now, though there was still room for exploration. That in mind, Sherlock slowly let himself slump back. Let his head tilt, and his legs fall wider apart. Let himself, in short, _slide_.

"Better?" John's face was his doctor's mask of polite, professional interest, or desperately trying to be.

"Mm. Much."

John seemed to relax. His shoulders fell, along with his serious half-grin. The first truth came astonishingly quickly. "I like you better like this."

"So I see."

"I'm not proud of it." Sherlock let him stew in that revelation, merely watching, leaning his head on his hand. "I have a long list of excuses - an _actual_ list; I wrote it down - and I've told you most of them already."

"Yes. Your 'friendly concern' for my health." Sherlock giggled, finding it easy.

John nodded. "And the fact that you'd do it anyway, which you correctly pointed out is a load of cock."

At the mention of the word, Sherlock glanced between John's knees, slow enough for him to notice. When John looked up, he grinned until John settled back further in his chair and coughed. "So you like me better when I'm high. How _much_ better?"

"Do _you_ like yourself better this way?"

Sherlock shrugged, feeling honest. "No different."

"It's not like you're a different person. I like... I care about _you_ , Sherlock. And you're... the way you are, and that's part of the package. I accept that. You know I do. But I-" he shook his head. "Christ; maybe I'm the one who needs a little something to take the edge off."

"There's whiskey in the cupboard."

"Yeah, probably not a good idea."

Sherlock gestured to his arm; to the gun, neatly placed on the table. Raised his eyebrows.

"OK, fair point." John rose to get a glass, leaving Sherlock to muse on how long it would take him to figure out what had really been in the gun. 

"Got any ice?"

"No."

"Good. It ruins the whiskey."

Sherlock joined in with John's easy laughter, sliding his legs up and over the chair's ample arm.

"This is what I mean. This. We don't do this when-"

"-when I'm sober?"

There had been a time when they had, and they both knew it, but even now was not the right place for _that_ discussion. "Can't remember the last time I had a proper drink." John sat down again, not drinking. Pointedly, perhaps. He sniffed the glass, smiling almost contentedly.

"Probably right here."

"Ah."

"Incidentally, the last time you got me intox... intoxicated."

"I'm surprise you didn't notice, to be honest."

"I did. I told you; you're a terrible actor. And vodka isn't tasteless, even if cheap lager might be. They're different kinds of tasteless; I noticed instantly."

John snorted into his glass. "Why didn't you say anything?"

"At first I was curious, but after a while I stopped caring."

Another genuine smile; the change in John's body language was _staggering_. He leaned forwards slightly nipping gently at the whiskey. One hand rose, landing on Sherlock's arm. "I'm sorry I spiked your drink."

"I'm not. I enjoyed that night."

"What; all of it?"

"Up to a point?"

"Which point?"

"The point where I passed out."

"Was that before or after you-"

" _All right_ , a little before then!"

They were close. Breath mingling, as they say. John's fingers were moving in little, slow circles for the sole reason that he was not aware of them doing so. "I'm sorry I spiked your drink," he said again. "That really wasn't on. I'm a bloody doctor."

"And yet..."

Sherlock knew now. Not with absolute certainty; not _absolute_ , which kept everything so fragile. He exhaled, slowly, letting his arm drop to feel John's hand trail along it. _So_ fragile. "And yet here I am, right?"

"Why are you here, John?"

"You must know. Even high as a fucking kite, you must know." He had not moved his hand.

"Tell me."

John shook his head.

"Show me."

"Mary," John breathed, snapping back as though his phone had rung, which it hadn't. 

"No. Sherlock. Though I can see the confusion; we've been over that." Sherlock's fingers curled around the gun. "Sorry. That was a cheap shot," he added, turning it over contemplatingly. "No pun intended."

"I just remembered." There was definite panic in John's eyes. He'd clearly remembered something, but not what he was about to suggest. "She's got a dentist appointment today; she needs the car."

"Dentist." Sherlock tried not to be insulted. Even for John, that was a spectacularly bad lie. Sherlock was eighty percent certain he had not even driven here.

"Yeah." John looked away, rubbing his hands together. "Good thing I only nipped at the whiskey."

"Otherwise you would have had to stay the night?"

Perhaps he deserved the look John gave him, but it was worth it. "So you're going to abandon me? What happened to safety?"

"Yeah, well, you're not really high, are you?"

Something not entirely unlike pride pooled at the bottom of Sherlock's spine. Other things pooled elsewhere. He was flesh, after all, much as he'd like to pretend otherwise. "When did you realize?"

"Right away. I'm a _doctor_ , you know. Frankly, I'm a little insulted."

"Only a little?"

John wrenched the gun from Sherlock's hands, dropping it back in the bag. "It's been fun. We must do this again some time. By the way, thanks for proving me right."

Sherlock frowned. "How so?"

"If you're this good an actor, you could have fooled everyone at the crack house. I doubt anyone there has a medical degree-" he stopped Sherlock's opening mouth with a gesture. "If you say Wiggins, I swear, I will punch you in the face."

"Wouldn't be the first time."

John ignored him, practically vibrating with... anger? Most likely. "Point is, you had _no_ reason to take real drugs."

"I'll make sure to take fake ones next time."

Grunting, John slammed the bag down on table, throwing himself forward with enough urgency to force Sherlock back. It took them a second or two to work out what had happened; the upshot of which was John's lips on Sherlock's. Contact. Brief and rough, then breath, warm and jagged. John's teeth tore against Sherlock's chin as he lowered his head with a barely audible 'shite'. Wouldn't leave a mark, more's the pity.

Sherlock counted to as much as he could manage, then pulled John back and up, prying his lips apart. He smelt strongly of whiskey. _And regret to come_ , added his ever present inner commentary. Ever present, even here. He should not have expected it to be otherwise. 

It took seconds for John to pull away, though his fingers were still anchored in Sherlock's shirt; hooked in the loops and folds that hadn't been there a month ago. He wanted to speak; his face contorted with words struggling to come out, but as had been the entire point of this exercise, that would not happen with both of them sober.

"You don't have to talk."

"Sherlock..."

"Don't talk."

"Shut up."

The dentist appointment, absurd though it had sounded, was probably real, it struck Sherlock. No. The appointment was; the nature thereof, however... "You should go."

"Shut up. Please, just..." John's fingers fumbled, aimlessly skirting buttons.

"It's important."

"I want... I _need_ to stop _thinking_ so fucking much about everything! I don't like having to think about things. I don't like _complicated!_ " 

Sherlock waited a beat. Let John's hands relax against his chest. Let him breathe. "Come for Christmas."

John blinked. Shook his head as if to orient himself. "S... sorry?"

"Christmas. Mother does insist. The both of you."

"Yeah. Christmas. Right."

Sherlock inhaled; exhaled deeply. It was tempting to close his eyes, but John's reactions were unstable enough as it was. "Let go of my shirt," he said, quite measuredly.

"Oh. Sorry."

"That's better," Sherlock lied. "Now, go home to your wife. This will all blow over."

"What will?"

"Oh, I don't know." Sherlock folded back in on himself, grabbing a pillow from the floor and hugging it. It smelled faintly of cigarettes and Janine's perfume. "That's the sort of thing people say in these situations, isn't it?"

"I meant," John was visibly composing himself, "are you talking about _you and me?_ What just happened?"

"I'm speaking in general terms. As for avoiding thinking too much, you've got me there. That's what the drugs are for." He bobbed his head towards the bag on the table.

"I've got to go."

"Yes."

"We're..." Shuffling feet. Darting eyes. The whole John Watson waltz of indescision. "We're..."

"We're fine. Go."

John did.


End file.
